It started in the darkness of early morning. My husband drove frantically to the hospital. This was not what we had planned. It was three months too soon for our twin boys to arrive. Out of the darkness of an anesthesia haze I awoke to find my family looking down at me. The concern and fear in their eyes was evident. They smiled as I awoke and said I was ok. I did not care about me. Where are my babies?
The boys had been taken swiftly to the neonatal intensive care unit and hooked to numerous machines so that their 29-week bodies could stay alive. I had to see them.
Hooked to lines and machines myself, I was not yet allowed to go see my boys. While lying in the hospital bed, I called friends, family, and my church family to let them know what happened. They encouraged me with words of support and hope and offered prayers. Eager to get free of my lines, I made the nurse promise me I could see my boys that first night.
My husband took my hand and guided me to the small isolettes in the dark nursery. Nothing can prepare someone for seeing his or her children so tiny and vulnerable. Although I should have broken down, something guided me with strength and determination to be strong and have faith.
The timing of the boys’ birth fell during Lent. In the week leading up to Easter, the boys began to stabilize and we were told that we would get to hold them soon. We went each day to see our boys and provide what care we could, changing diapers the size made for dolls. On Easter Sunday, we went after church. The nurse asked if I wanted to hold my boys. She tucked each one in close to me like a kangaroo. Tears streamed down my face. I rocked slowly and sang softly “Jesus Loves Me.” In that moment, I knew that while they were “weak, He is strong.” Somewhere in the darkness, I found “ peace that surpassed all understanding.”
